The Christmas holidays flew by amidst Draco's fulfilling "extracurricular academic research."
Alongside these research outings, Draco accompanied his mother, Narcissa, to several incredibly dull social gatherings hosted by her maternal relatives—the Yaxleys, the Rosiers, the Parkinsons, the Flints, the Bursts, the Crabbes…
When it came to cultivating connections, no one in the Malfoy family could rival Narcissa. The significance of her maiden name—Black—was far too profound: most pure-blood wizarding families bore some relation to it, making her virtually untouchable at any social gathering.
Tall, fair-skinned, and flaxen-haired, Narcissa was enviably beautiful. Moreover, bearing the combined prestige of both the Black and Malfoy names, she was often a guest of honour at gatherings held by certain pure-blood families.
Draco sometimes felt that his mother didn't truly enjoy these events; she participated out of consideration for the family's interests, and nothing more.
Most of the time—especially when dealing with pure-blood families less wealthy and powerful than her own—Narcissa had little interest in going out of her way to befriend them.
The wizards didn't mind. As long as she sat at the gatherings they had so lavishly arranged, they considered it an honour, a mark of distinction that she had deigned to appear at all.
Of course, this is not to say that Narcissa could not lower her guard when the occasion demanded it—if she chose to, she could be the most charming and sociable person in the room.
If there was something to be gained, she would abandon her hauteur without hesitation, wielding an irresistible warmth and impeccable grace to charm even the loneliest of old pureblood matrons—cultivating "friendships" that suited both parties entirely.
Only at such moments would her hauteur soften—though Draco knew the pride embedded in her very blood had never truly faded.
Yet despite her innate coldness, Narcissa was always a tender mother to Draco.
Those who deferred to her so reverently at these gatherings would doubtless struggle to picture her sitting at Draco's bedside, her voice soft and warm as she read him stories.
Even though, on the inside, he was already a shattered seventeen-year-old, and knew full well that bedtime stories were of little practical use, Draco cherished these rare, carefree moments with his mother.
Such moments let him temporarily forget his troubles—though Lucius was never particularly pleased about it.
"Enough." Lucius leaned against Draco's doorframe, his face cold with impatience. "He's nearly twelve years old. He doesn't need you to coddle him."
Draco said nothing, but deliberately took his mother's hand and looked up at her with wide, imploring eyes.
This trick always worked.
"It's so rare for my little dragon to come home, and here you are, stealing him away from me…" Narcissa sighed, playing the wounded mother with well-practised ease. "Haven't you any heart…"
"All right, all right." Lucius wrinkled his nose, toying with his cane, and relented. "One last story, then."
Narcissa idly turned to a page in The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
"Then let us have 'The Tale of the Three Brothers':"
Once upon a time, three brothers were travelling along a lonely, winding road as dusk fell—or perhaps it was midnight. In time, they came to a river, too deep to wade across and too treacherous to swim.
But the three brothers were skilled in magic, and with a wave of their wands, a bridge appeared over the dark water. When they reached its centre, a hooded figure barred their way.
Death spoke to them. He was furious—three new souls had slipped from his grasp, for travellers usually drowned in that river. But Death was cunning. He congratulated the three brothers on their cleverness, declaring that each had outwitted him, and that each would receive a reward.
The eldest brother was a warlike man. He demanded the most powerful wand in the world: one that would ensure its master's victory in every duel—a wand fit for a wizard who had conquered Death. Death went to an elder tree on the bank, fashioned a wand from one of its branches, and presented it to the eldest brother.
The second brother, arrogant and contemptuous, wished to humiliate Death further. He demanded the power to raise the dead. Death stooped and picked up a stone from the riverbank, handing it to the second brother and declaring that the stone had the power to bring the dead back to life.
Then Death turned to the youngest. He was the humblest and most cautious of the three, and he did not trust Death. He asked for something that would allow him to walk unseen, away from Death's reach. Death, reluctantly, handed over his own Invisibility Cloak.
Death stepped aside and bade the brothers continue on their way. They went on, marvelling at the wonders they had been given. Eventually, they parted and went their separate ways.
The eldest brother travelled for over a week before arriving at a distant village, where he fell into a quarrel with a wizard. Wielding his elder wand, he was certain to win—and his opponent fell dead at his feet. That night, flushed with victory, he entered a tavern and boasted loudly of his undefeatable wand, a gift from Death himself. While he lay in a drunken stupor, another wizard crept to his bedside, stole the wand, and slit his throat. And so Death claimed the eldest brother at last.
The second brother returned to his solitary home, took out the stone that could raise the dead, and turned it thrice in his hand. To his overwhelming joy, the girl he had wished to marry—taken young by an early death—appeared before him. Yet she was sorrowful and distant, as though a veil hung between them. She had returned to the mortal world, but she did not truly belong there, and she was in great pain. Driven mad by his longing for something he could never truly have, the second brother took his own life to join her in death. And so Death claimed the second brother as well.
But the third brother, Death could not find—not for many, many years. He had gone out into the world and lived a long, full life, unseen and unknown. Only when he had grown very old did he take off the Invisibility Cloak at last, pass it to his son, and greet Death as an old friend. Together, they departed this world as equals.
The story came to its end in the warmth of Narcissa's soft voice, while Lucius watched his wife with a quiet, steady gaze.
When Narcissa finished, Draco was nowhere near sleepy—his eyes were bright, his mind wide awake.
Nearly every child from a wizarding family knew this story. But this time, Draco heard something different within it.
The Elder Wand… His mother had read him this tale many times over. Could this be the very thing the Dark Lord had been searching for?
Who would have thought such a bedtime story might conceal something far greater—perhaps even a legendary artefact from the wizarding world itself?
He had long wanted to research the Elder Wand. Back in November, while writing his paper on Merrick, he had come across the term—Merrick's rival, the monster Egbert, had wrested the Elder Wand from him in a duel.
Though it was only unofficial history with little solid evidence, a story that had endured for centuries could not be entirely without foundation.
Where might he find more? Draco had been haunting the Hogwarts library since November, searching for any mention of it—he hadn't yet found a suitable opportunity to approach Florin Fosco or Ollivander directly.
Now, to his surprise, he realised his mother might be able to answer at least some of his questions.
"Mother," Draco said, his voice trembling slightly with excitement, "do you know what those three brothers were called?"
"I believe this concerns the legend of the three Peverell brothers," Narcissa said, almost idly.
"Do you think the Elder Wand really exists?" Draco asked softly.
"You silly child—it's just a legend." Lucius, who had somehow settled himself on the edge of the bed, ruffled his son's platinum-blonde hair and chuckled.
"Not necessarily." Narcissa smiled gently, her blue eyes resting on Lucius. "The names of the three Peverell brothers appear in the Black family's genealogy—Born Noble: The Wizarding Genealogy. I have never believed that legends are simply legends; there is always some kernel of truth. Though the Peverells were among the first families to vanish, I do believe they truly existed."
Lucius remained noncommittal, clearly uninterested. He produced an exquisite pocket watch, dangled it pointedly before Narcissa, and raised an expectant eyebrow.
"All right, Draco, close your eyes and sleep. We have an early train to catch tomorrow morning." Narcissa gently kissed Draco's forehead and whispered goodnight.
Draco promptly feigned a yawn.
Lucius blew out the candle on the bedside table and, with a satisfied air, drew his arm around Narcissa's waist and steered her back toward their room.
The moment they left, Draco's eyes flew open. He lay wide awake in the moonlight, Narcissa's voice still echoing softly in his mind:
"The most powerful wand in the world… a wand that will always ensure its master's victory in a duel… Death went to an elder tree on the bank and fashioned a wand from one of its branches…"
The Elder Wand… The Dark Lord had wielded it in his final moments… He had obtained it from Dumbledore's tomb…
If the Elder Wand was more than a legend—he stared blankly at the canopy above him—he thought he knew where it might be.
That wand ought still to belong to Professor Dumbledore. In his previous life, it had been Draco himself who cast a Disarming Charm and sent it flying from the Professor's hand.
He was certain of it. He could still see, perfectly clearly, the wand spinning through the air beneath the moonlight of the Astronomy Tower—and the distinctive elder-wood grain carved along its length.
If there was anyone in the world who deserved to possess the Elder Wand, it was Professor Dumbledore.
And if the legends were true, then everything else began to make sense.
Why were Ollivander and Florin Fosco locked in the Malfoy family dungeons, tortured beyond recognition at the Dark Lord's command? Why had the Dark Lord abandoned the hunt for Potter at a critical moment, travelling vast distances to seek out the wandmaker Gregorovitch? Why had the Dark Lord forsaken all decorum and violated Dumbledore's rest, breaking open that silent tomb…?
And yet, such a wand was by no means simple to wield. It was not enough merely to possess it.
As far as Draco could tell, the Elder Wand had not performed as one might expect in the Dark Lord's hands.
There must be some untold secret governing the wand's allegiance—and the true measure of its power.
He found himself recalling something Ollivander had said, almost in passing, during a visit to his shop: "…Wands choose their wizards. Every wand possesses extraordinary magical properties—they have their own will, and that is their very essence."
The notion that wands possessed their own will had always intrigued him. He had been sceptical at first, but the experience of losing his wand in his past life had forced him to accept it.
Apart from his own wand—the one that had chosen him—no other wand had ever felt quite right. Not even his mother's.
None of them could truly attune to him.
It was as though each wand truly did have a will of its own—and had chosen its master accordingly.
But could that choice ever change?
Draco recalled that when he had gone to the Room of Requirement to reclaim his wand from Potter, Potter had said something peculiar: "Whoever wins it, keeps it." The wand no longer belonged to Draco, Potter had declared.
A strange claim. How could his own wand not be his?
What did "win" even mean? Did a brutal theft count as winning? Surely a fair duel was required?
If ordinary wands were this mysterious, a legendary object like the Elder Wand must possess an even stronger will of its own. Did it, too, need to be "won"? Did taking it from the dead even count?
And furthermore—did Potter have any actual basis for saying such a thing? How much weight could that claim really carry?
It might have been nothing more than an offhand remark. Potter was no wandlore expert, after all. One would have to ask Ollivander directly to know for certain.
These scattered fragments of information rattled about in his mind like puzzle pieces tipped across the floor, each one clamouring to be fitted together.
But haste makes waste, and Draco knew better than to expect all the answers at once. Even the faintest clue would be a gift.
Before he finally drifted off to sleep, he had already settled on his next move.
When he next visited Diagon Alley to collect his second-year textbooks, he would make certain to stop at Ollivander's shop.